Текст книги "From the Wreckage"
Автор книги: Melissa Collins
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
“We’re down to our last shot. You think you can handle the big stick?” Ian jokes as he hands me my bat.
“Shut up, asshole.”
“What? You said so yourself the other night. You’re out of practice.” The bastard laughs at himself, as if he’s actually being funny. But on the other hand, maybe I’m wound a bit too tight.
After shooting Ian an icy look that screams just drop it already, I make my way out to the on-deck circle for a few practice swings. The relief pitcher is insane. Before joining the NYPD, he actually played in the minors. The tragedies of 9/11 spurred a change of heart in him and he joined New York’s finest when they needed him the most. He left the minors and immediately signed up for the next cadet class. It didn’t take long for him to become a local sensation. He was only barely legal at the time, but even now, well more than ten years later, he still throws like a professional. His character makes it a little difficult to hate the guy too much. But seeing as he’s struck out three in a row in the bottom of the eighth and now this first batter in the bottom of the ninth, it’s not completely impossible to be at least a little pissed at him.
Competition flows in my veins. It always has. Of course today is no different, but with Grace in the stands, I feel even more motivated to win the game. I know we’re here for the kids and that the charity is the main focus of the day, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just as equally motivated by winning over a certain redhead in the first row.
Ian slaps me on my back as he takes over my spot in the on-deck circle. “Don’t make an ass of yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never get laid again.” That comment earns him a quick elbow to the ribs.
Stepping into the batter’s box, I catch one last glimpse of Grace. Her hands are cupped around her mouth and there’s a nervous look in her eyes. Needless to say, I can’t hear her over the rest of the crowd, but knowing that she’s more than likely cheering my name makes me think about her calling out my name in a completely different venue.
Even though I don’t want to, I force myself to look away from her, shifting my focus back to the game. Ian is at least partly right. I definitely don’t want to make myself look like a fool. And not entirely for fear of living a sexless existence—everything always reverts back to sex for Ian.
No, any anxiety I’m feeling comes from the rows and rows filled with kids wearing their FDNY hats. They’re the reason I’m here. And sure, I want to win so I can impress Grace, but I want to win so I can make their day.
Taking a deep breath, I set myself up in the box and prepare myself to take the first pitch. Knowing what you’re up against is half the battle sometimes. But when that first pitch flies past me, I think I may have had more luck if I’d have swung the bat blindly in the hopes of at least getting a piece of it. The snap of the ball landing in the catcher’s mitt drowns out the “strike one” call from the umpire.
Okay, game on.
Sharper focus. Quicker reflex. You got this.
He winds up and blows another strike past me. At least this time I swung the bat. When the catcher stands up to throw the ball back, he actually shakes out his hand, his palm red from the stinging hundred-miles-per-hour fastball.
Only a few rows behind Grace, I see a group of young boys jumping up and down, waving their FDNY hats in the air. The low roar of a syncopated cheer grows in the crowd. Calling out “F D N Y,” the cheer gathers strength, the voices rolling into some kind of snowball effect.
Deep breath. Another practice swing. Knees bent. Head on straight. Let’s do this.
He winds up and, by some stroke of luck, he throws another fastball right down the center of the plate. The contact stings my hands, but it ends up being a solid hit. The ball soars over the left fielder’s head and bounces off the wall, landing me with a double.
One out. Man on second. Down by a run. Talk about the pressure being on. While I have faith in most of my teammates to get the job done, I’m more than a little relieved Ian’s at bat. If anyone can come through in a clutch, whether it’s saving my ass in a burning building, or getting a hit in a must-win situation, it’s definitely Ian.
Taking a larger than usual lead, I want to give myself the best chances of getting to third. The crowd is almost ear-piercingly loud and luckily it’s enough to distract the pitcher. The ball gets by the catcher, giving me the gift of advancing to third without the chance of being thrown out.
Ian nods in my direction before tipping his head toward the right field wall. With the next pitch, his unspoken message of lifting a ball into the outfield is heard loud and clear. My left foot planted firmly on the base, I wait for the right fielder to catch the ball before I sprint home.
“Holy shit,” I scream out in pain when I’m about halfway down the baseline. The sharp, searing pain of a pulled muscle nearly stops me in my tracks. Knowing that I need to score that run spurs me on past the pain.
Somewhat lamely, I close the gap and gain some ground, but not before the right fielder launches the ball to the catcher. Rendering the cut-off man utterly useless, the right fielder fires a straight shot to home plate. The ball lands in the catcher’s mitt a split second before I barrel into him. Dropping my shoulder, I try my best to knock him down hard enough, forcing him to drop the ball. We both crash to the ground in a tumble of arms and legs. The power of the hit sends my helmet flying through the air and my head slams into the ground as I roll over the catcher.
The ball remains firmly planted in his glove.
“You’re out!” the umpire yells and the crowd explodes, clapping, cheering, and yelling their excitement.
The NYPD team rushes the field, piling on top of the catcher. When I try to stand, my leg simply won’t work. My vision clouds slightly and a fog of dizziness descends upon me.
Talk about making a fool of yourself.
I’m lucid enough to recognize Ian standing over me.
“Andrews, you okay?” As if he’s speaking to a child, he says each word clearly and loudly.
Blinking, my eyes lose even more focus. Vaguely, I can make out the shapes of some other people standing around me. “Dave,” Ian calls out again. “You in there somewhere?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, but even saying the single word makes me feel nauseous. Only the sharp pain of my pulled muscle brings me back to the here and now. “I think I’m okay,” I spit out, trying to pull myself up a little.
“Slow down,” Ian chides. “Go slow.”
My vision returns to normal and I can make out that there’s a medic squatting in front of me as Ian loops his arm around my shoulder, helping me into a sitting position. A bright light flashes in my eyes. The medic says, “Pupils are reacting normally, but I’m a little concerned about him being so disoriented.”
“My head’s fine,” I say, my clarity returning. “It’s my leg that’s screwed up.”
With Ian on one side of me and the medic on the other, they help me stand from the ground and the crowd cheers. Their applause helps lessen the sting of losing the game. As we hobble off the field, I see Grace standing next to Jade, a relieved smile on her beautiful face. She walks out of her row and down to the netting separating the stands from the field.
“I’m good now,” I mutter to Ian and the medic, insisting they leave me by the net to speak to Grace in private.
“You okay?” The concern in her voice outweighs her attempt to cover it up with lightness.
“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine,” I lie, putting on a brave face.
“He’s a liar, too,” Ian chimes in at my side, slinging both my bag and his over his shoulders. “His leg’s busted up pretty badly, probably a pulled muscle. And, I’d put money on him having a concussion.”
“What can I do?” Grace asks, her concern vanishing as she goes into what I can only call fix-it mode.
“Nothing,” I growl. “I’m fine really.”
“Dude, your brain is all scattered. Let the woman help you.” Ian remains calm, though his words come out through clenched teeth. Waving Grace over to the small gate that opens onto the field, he shoots me a shit-eating grin. Always the opportunist, I’ll give him credit for this one.
“He should probably have someone stay with him tonight. Wake him up every hour or so. You know, just in case.” Grace doesn’t know Ian enough to hear the playful joking in his words, but they ring out loud and clear to me. “Now,” he continues, tapping his chin with his pointer finger as if he’s actually trying to think of something, “what would be an effective way to wake him up throughout the night?”
“All right, enough of that, asshole,” I grumble, stifling a laugh.
“Actually,” the medic interrupts. “It might not be a horrible idea to have someone stay with you tonight. Just in case. You were a little disoriented.”
And nauseous, too, but I don’t tell him that. Grace’s face twists in concern when she hears the medic’s advice and it makes me feel guilty for minimizing what could potentially be a dangerous injury. “Okay, I’ll call my parents and stay with them for the night.”
“Unless,” Ian draws out the word, arching a brow at Grace.
“I could stay with you,” her voice quietly cuts through the tension-laden atmosphere of me staring Ian down to make him shut the fuck up. “To take care of you, I mean. Unless—no, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. Maybe I can give you a ride to your parents. Oh, wait. Shit. I don’t have a car. I could, uh, maybe . . .” Her face turns pink at her rambling, but it makes me smile like nothing else.
“I’d much rather stay at my own place tonight,” I calm her, dropping a hand to her flailing arms. “Would you be able to stay the night? Just to take care of me, of course.”
Well, if that isn’t the most sexual of innuendos, I don’t know what is. It even causes Ian to look at me, his mouth open in disbelief.
A flash of pain radiates through my leg, echoing the pain in my head. “Oh, fuck,” I curse, running a hand through my hair. The abrupt motion and my hand slapping somewhat hard against my head makes me dizzy all over again. On the edge of losing my balance, I’m thankful that Ian and Grace each fall in step beside me, looping their arms around my waist.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a roommate for the evening,” Grace says, smiling up at me.
With Ian’s help, we make it out to my car after Grace explains to Jade where she’ll be for the night. Jade and Ian exchange a few sarcastic comments at mine and Grace’s expense. It’s as if they’re both cut from the same cloth. Watching them walk away from my car, engaging in God only knows what kind of conversation, I know I’ll get a phone call from Ian in the very near future asking about her deal.
When we’re settled in the car—with her driving, of course—I turn in my seat. “Thank you for doing this, but I really don’t want to put you out.”
“Stop.” Her hand drops to mine on the center console. “You’re clearly hurt. You could barely even walk to the car and don’t even get me started on that head of yours. It’s really the least I could do. Plus,” she pauses, shyness taking over her words, “I thought it would be nice to hang out for a while. Get to know each other a little bit.”
Squeezing her hand in mine, I agree with a broad smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
It doesn’t take long for the stop-and-go traffic of the parking lot to make me feel drowsy. And though I try to fight falling asleep, it’s no use.
When I open my eyes, I’m more than shocked to see my apartment complex standing before us. “What the–”
Grace laughs. “Calm down. I’m not some crazy stalker.” Tipping her head at the GPS in the dashboard, she taps the stop routing button. “Your GPS has a guide me home feature. I figured you would have a shitty night of me waking you up every hour, so a short nap would be fine for now.” Slapping her hand to my good leg, she adds, “Up and at ’em.”
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I move slowly and unbuckle the seat belt. Carefully stretching my leg before putting any weight on it is a completely futile activity because the second I stand next to my car, the shooting pain returns. Grace is at my side in an instant. Even though she’s a decent amount shorter than me, I’m able to lean on her just enough to make the pain far less severe.
“You don’t need people to help you all that often, I see,” she jokes, helping me hobble over to my front door. “It’s a good thing you’re on the first floor.” She hands me my keys and as I open the door, her mouth falls open.
“Yeah, the door is on the ground floor, but I live up there.” Angling my head up the flight of about fifteen steps, I already feel my leg twinging in pain.
“Okay,” she says with determination, her voice strong and competent. “Let’s do this.”
With the banister on one side and Grace on the other, I’m able to balance myself fairly well. The top of the stairs open up into my living room, which is a huge mess of course. “I’m sorry,” I say, a touch winded. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“It’s okay.” She helps me over to the couch and props my foot up on the coffee table sitting in front of the couch. “You just sit here and I’ll get you all set up.” She starts looking around the room, but it’s clear she’s not finding whatever it is she’s looking for.
“What do you need?” I ask, stretching out my leg as best I can.
“You don’t own any throw pillows?”
“What the hell is a throw pillow?” Genuinely confused, I have no clue what the hell she’s talking about. Quarter-round molding, tongue-in-groove flooring, and tile spacers, now that’s more up my alley.
“You can’t be serious,” she huffs in disbelief. “It’s a pillow. You can toss it anywhere. Like on your couch. They’re decorative.”
“Well, there’s the issue,” I laugh, waving my hand to the side. “If it’s not functional, I don’t need it.” After rolling her eyes at me—hard, I might add—she stalks off down the only hallway. “Where are you going?” I call out after her. “Hey, that’s my room.” With the whininess of a teenager, I try to stop her from going in there, but since I couldn’t get up right now even if I tried, I keep my ass planted firmly on the couch.
“It’s good to see you have regular pillows,” she jokes, as she tosses one of my bed pillows at me. “Up,” she directs, sliding the other pillow under my foot. “Is it safe to assume you have ice? Seeing as it’s functional and not decorative.”
Laughing, I say, “Yes, wiseass. It’s in the freezer.”
“Oh, not in the oven. How unconventional,” she jokes, pointing a finger in my direction. “Umm,” her voice is slightly muffled what with her head in the freezer and all. “Actually, you’re fresh out.”
“Oh, shit! I forgot. The water line burst and I haven’t had a chance to fix it.”
Watching Grace walk into my living room, a bag of frozen vegetables in each hand, shouldn’t be hot. It shouldn’t turn me on, but it sure as hell does. “Well, luckily for you, you obviously love frozen peas.” She sits next to my propped-up foot on my coffee table. Looking down at my leg, she pauses for a second. She leans forward and I’m momentarily distracted by her cleavage—it’s impossible not to look at it as she leans forward. When her fingertips slide under the hem of my shorts, I nearly jump out of my seat.
“What are you doing?” My voice sounds like a shrieking banshee. “Your hands are fucking ice cold.”
She apologizes, but doesn’t move her hand from its place under my shorts. Averting her eyes from mine, she says, “I was just pulling these down a little so the ice didn’t burn your skin. I can get a towel though.”
As she moves to stand, I grab her wrist, pulling her back to the coffee table. “Decorative, remember.” We both let the laughter flow, allowing it to ease away the tension.
Forcing myself to think of baseball, cooking shows, or even a burning building is the only way to will away the erection that threatens as she adjusts my shorts. The shock of the ice cold peas helps, too. But her nearness, her sweetness, her heat, it’s all too much. Luckily, the other pillow she brought out with her is the perfect cover up for my physical reaction.
Moving from the table, Grace settles next to me on the couch. “So,” she draws out the word, a bubble of awkward silence threatening to fall on us. “Now what?”
My stomach takes the pause as an opportunity to grumble in hunger. “Uh, how about some food?”
“If your fridge and cabinets look anything like your freezer, I think we may be shit outta luck.” She shrugs, making no effort to hide her laughter.
“Just hand me the phone,” I say, laughing with her.
She watches on, a stupefied look on her face as I order us some take out. “You have the pizza place on speed dial?”
“What?” Shrugging, I hang up the phone after ordering my usual. “My parents are number one, at least.”
“I’m stuffed.” Leaning back, she rests her hands across her stomach. “That was damn good.”
“Best in town,” I add before sliding forward in my seat. Wobbling slightly, I stand from the couch.
“What are you doing?” she calls out. “Sit back down,” she commands, standing next to me. “Whatever it is you need to do, I can do for you.”
With as much style as I can muster, I flop back onto the couch, a smug look on my face. “Yeah?” She nods, satisfied with my submission. “Cool. Sponge bath it is.”
Opening and closing her mouth a few times, she says nothing, but her cheeks and neck turn a bright shade of red. Unable to let her wait there in embarrassment any longer, I move next to her and rest my hands on her shoulders. “Guess that’s more of a second date kind of thing, huh?”
She slaps a hand to my chest, calling me a jerk. “Fine. You go shower.” She gives in, angling her head back to the bathroom. “And I’ll clean up in here.”
“Deal.” Hobbling down to the shower, all I can think about are her wet hands running over my body.
And cue the erection again.
Looks like a cold shower it is.
Besides, I’d rather be in the living room next to the woman I’d be fantasizing about, rather than under the hot water thinking about her.
Showering and getting dressed takes way more effort than I thought. The rest and ice definitely helped my leg and I’m able to put a little more weight on it than before, but it’s not 100 percent. Luckily, I’m heading into a four-day stretch without work. That should be more than enough time to heal.
When I walk back out to the living room, it feels as if I’m in a different apartment. “When you said clean up, I figured you meant you’d put the dishes in the sink. Maybe put the leftover pizza in the fridge.” In disbelief, I make my way back over to the couch. “Did you dust?” Running my finger over the TV stand as I walk past it, I can’t hide my shock when my finger does not leave a trail through the dust that’s usually there.
“Well, you were in there forever.” She arches a brow, smiling at me with softness in her eyes. “I had to do something to keep myself occupied.”
“I was not in there forever. The water was freezing. I couldn’t have taken more than five minutes.”
“Freezing? Why’s that, David?” Her voice, low and sultry almost, dances over to me, tingling my ear.
“So,” I deflect, “What are we watching?”
She laughs, patting the spot on the couch next to her. Making herself right at home, she points the remote at the screen and selects a movie from the on-demand queue. Busy getting my leg situated, I don’t realize she’s selecting from the Recently Watched list.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about Big Titties in the Big Cities?”
Fooled by the straightforward sound of her voice, I almost don’t catch the title of the movie. It isn’t until I look up at the screen and see the very explicit thumbnail showing on the screen that it all actually makes sense to me. “What the? Oh, that fucker. I’m gonna wring his neck,” I grumble in frustration, nearly ripping the remote from her hands. “Ian was here the other day. I swear it wasn’t me.”
“Are you saying you don’t like porn?” Twisting in her seat, she tucks one leg under her body. There’s nothing in her face giving away how she really feels right now. Every guy instinct I have is telling me to run the other way, scream and shout from the top of my lungs, Porn? Yuck. No, who likes that. Too much nudity for my taste. But then she cracks before I have to lie.
She blinks and her face changes from stoic seriousness to hysterical laughter. “Damn! And I really wanted to hear what you’d come up with,” she blurts out through her laughter.
“I swear it was Ian,” I defend, though she doesn’t seem to need more of an explanation.
“Oh, I’m sure.” Her voice drips with sarcasm as she shifts her attention back to the screen. “Can you, um, change this now?” Well, at least she’s still laughing.
Keeping my focus on the screen, I click through the movies on HBO and stop when she squeals when In Her Shoes pops up as a choice. “Have you ever seen this?”
Swallowing back the wiseass response I want to spit out, I say, “Um, no I haven’t.” She swipes the remote out of my hand and before I can protest, we’re watching some rom-com about sisters fighting.
As much as I won’t admit it, the movie isn’t horrible. And much to my surprise, there’s even a few sex scenes. I guess directors figure they need to include something in there to keep the guys entertained. I nearly spit out my water when one of the scenes starts out with a guy reading a racy excerpt from a romance novel to one of the sisters. Grace shoots me a look, earning a broad smile from me. “What, I didn’t say anything?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She laughs, returning her attention to the screen.
Using the opportunity to ask what I wanted to ask earlier, I lean into her, keeping my lips just far enough from her ear that I’m not touching it, but close enough that she’ll feel my breath. Her body goes rigid at first and then melts against mine. “What about you, Grace? Do you like porn?”
Seemingly unaffected by my question, she drops her hand to my leg, dancing her fingertips along my thigh. With her eyes glued to the screen, she takes a deep, but shuddery breath before saying, “I enjoy a good porn every now and then.” On a gentle squeeze of my leg, she adds, “I like reading them, too.”
Clearing my throat, I shift in my seat, simply saying, “Well, then,” before refocusing my attention on the movie. Maybe I’ve met my match in the sarcasm department. That thought puts a smile on my face through the rest of the movie.
Sniffling and irregular breathing wakes me up some time later. When I open my eyes, there’s a wedding scene playing–one of the two main characters who were reading sex scenes to one another earlier in the movie. Grace’s eyes are glued to the screen once again. Feeling me shift at her side, she realizes I’m awake. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she croaks, swiping at the tears streaking down her cheek.
Without even thinking twice about it, I drape my arm around her shoulder and pull her close to my side. Her head fits perfectly against my chest, the smell of her citrus shampoo surrounding me. The long strands of her hair fall over my hand on her shoulder, making my fingers itch to touch it. And in an effort to offer her some comfort, I comb my fingers through it, forcing her to melt even further against me.
We stay like that until the credits roll across the screen. On a deep breath, she pulls away from me, swiping at her face once more. “You fell asleep through the part, but it was this movie that made me want to go into teaching.”
Amazed by the fact that she makes no apologies for her emotions, I turn to face her. Leaving my arm resting along the back of the couch, I let my fingers still dance through the ends of her hair. “Yeah? How so?”
Listening to her talk about how the old man in the nursing home cemented her desire to help others, I’m in awe of her genuine goodness. Her desire not only to teach students, but to help them reach their fullest potential is nothing short of moving. “Reading can change a person,” she continues her explanation. “And I’m not just saying in the very basic sense of making you a more educated person. But it makes you more aware of the beauty in the world. The creativity in your own heart. Reading is an escape from the world, but not all people see it that way. So if I can help my students find that escape, help them discover how words can change them forever . . .” She pauses, taking stock of my reaction. Satisfied with whatever she sees there, she continues, “I guess I just figured that was a pretty noble pursuit to dedicate my life to. It’s not running into burning buildings or anything like that–”
“Damned if you’d ever catch me in front of a room full of teenagers.” Laughing, I add, “That’s a damn brave thing if you ask me.”
Something passes between us. It’s unnamable, but it’s calm and peaceful. It’s understanding and respect rolled into one. It’s attraction and emotion all tangled together.
“All right,” Grace cuts through the threatening silence. “Time to get you to bed.”
“You can have the bed. I’ll sleep out–”
Holding her hand up as if it will literally stop my words, she says, “Nope. I won’t hear any of it. Get your ass into bed. I’m setting my alarm for two hours.” She pulls her phone out from her purse and waves it in my face as if I need anything more than her seriousness to believe her threats. “So you better get going.” Still as a statue, she stands there, pointing down the hall. I’d have to laugh at her if she didn’t look so beautiful.
“Yes, ma’am,” I mock. “You know, you could sleep in there with me. It’d save you the . . .” I pause, pretending to count off the number of steps to my room. Her hard eye roll stops me from saying the rest of my sentence, but it makes both of us laugh.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” she assures. “Yet.” She winks, her lusty promise twisting in my gut. Despite what she’s just said, she doesn’t break character, still holding firm that I need to follow her instructions and get my ass in bed.
But when I bend down to kiss her cheek, whispering a sweet, “thank you” in her ear, her face softens, a smile pulling at her red lips.
In that moment, I know the last thing I’ll be able to do is sleep knowing Grace is here. With her on the couch, instead of next to me, somehow my bed suddenly feels too big, too cold, and too empty.
It’s only thoughts of eventually feeling her next to me that make sleep come somewhat quickly.
